Bloody Ice
by Farseeker
Summary: What will happen when Harry finally defeats Voldemort? Will he be able to survive the repercussions it will cause, or will he fall from the platform society has placed him on?


A/N – Not exactly sure where I'm going with this one, but it will most probably be slash, H/Sv.

There is no real beginning, they say. Take this story, for example. I suppose you could argue that the beginning of the story is the word 'There', capitalised and set nicely into place, probably feeling as proud as words can for that position. Others may say that, no, the story started when the author had a little idea that grew until her mind could no longer contain it and she was forced to either put it into words somewhere, or lose it. Either way, there is no real beginning to the story. No real end either, I suppose. Just a point where it started and finished in the mind of one person. That does not mean that the story doesn't continue in another mind, or that someone remembers more of it than is written down here. This is the start of that story that grew from the idea that author had for you, however.

Blinding white contrasted with shocking red, and in the middle of the red was a body. A man, in fact. There were other bodies lying on the snow as well, some moving, some not. This was the only body lying in a pool of blood, however. In front of the body and the pool of blood was a young man, barely seventeen and gazing down at the sight in front of him with horror in his eyes and blood staining his fingers. The boy was Harry Potter, ward of Hogwarts since his fifth year when his muggle aunt, uncle and cousin had died in a car crash. The Boy Who Lived, and, more recently, The Boy Who Defeated. Defeated You-Know-Who, that is. For that is who was lying in the snow in a pool of their own blood.

There had been an attack on Hogwarts. Everyone had known it would happen, eventually, but it was still a great shock to know that one of the safest places for witches and wizards in the world had been attacked. Death Eaters swarmed over the grounds, burning and destroying anything and everything they could. The Professors of the school tried to get the students inside from the Quidditch field, but both students and teachers knew that there would be no way to reach the castle. This was it, they thought. The last stand. Win or lose, live or die, surrender or fight. And so they fought. They fought with a courage and ferocity that surprised the Death Eaters, who had begun to use Avada Kedavra. No-one knew which student or professor had been the first to retaliate with the same, to fight fire with fire, but in truth no-one cared. All that mattered was that they were locked in a struggle for life and if they lost focus for a moment they were dead. Many believed that the vast majority were dead, anyway. 

The one advantage the Hogwarts population had was the Quidditch teams. Ravenclaw and Gryffindor had been playing, and were still on their brooms when the attack began. Most of them began to move downward, wanting to land and join the fight. Harry had called out though, rallied them into pairs and ordered them to fight from the air. They'd taken to carrying their wands with them in flight in case of an attack long ago, and the foresight saved the lives of many people. The Death Eaters had not been expecting such an attack, and many of them were killed or incapacitated through the impromptu air-force. The pairing worked well --- someone could watch your back and help you in group attacks. The teams were gradually picked off, however, and soon only Harry and Cecile, the new Ravenclaw seeker, were left. Cecile's broom was hit by a fire charm and he was burnt alive in front of Harry. Another fire charm hit Harry's broom, and the boy fell from it to the ground. Harry stood to find Voldemort standing in front of him, twirling his wand idly. The thought occurred to him at some point that the Dark Lord had always had a perchance for the dramatic, but he hadn't thought he was in a good position to make such a comment, and kept silent. Voldemort lifted his hand towards Harry, and beckoned. The wand flew out of his hand to You-Know-Who.

"Full circle, Potter," He had said. "Time to die."

Harry had watched Voldemort raise his wand, and reacted in a way that surprised himself--with a long-forgotten move from one of the three self defence classes he had been forced to attend with Dudley. He wrapped his hand around the end of Voldemort's wand and shoved it back towards the wizard, hard. The wand had ripped through Voldemort's throat, choking the wizard on his own blood. As the Dark Lord's life ebbed away so did the lives of the Death Eater's, and soon the field was littered with bodies. People turned to watch as Harry knelt beside the body in front of him and placed the tips of two fingers against its throat. He stood, and turned stunned eyes to face the rest of the living.

"He's dead," He said, voice shocked, before crumpling to the ground.

* * *

Gentle hands lifted Harry into a sitting position and pressed a cup to his lips. He moved his head slightly and moaned, not wanting to take the liquid.

"Take it, damn child." A voice reached his ears; familiar but not, as the cup was pressed against his lips again. He tried to speak, but liquid poured down his throat before he could say anything. It was cold but burned, and was bitter with a sweet after-taste. He swallowed it, and tried to open his eyes to see who was with him. They were glued shut. He tried to speak, but nothing came out besides for a hoarse, choking sound. He tried again, and this time coherent words formed.

"My eyes...I can't open them..."

"You cut your head when you passed out. They're stuck shut with blood." The voice again, and the feeling of familiarity grew.

"I know you, don't I?" Harry asked, and felt a damp cloth being pressed against his eyes.

"We are acquainted, yes. I believe you received a fair few detentions from me during my time at Hogwarts." The cloth moved up to Harry's forehead, and he opened his eyes.

"Professor...Snape?"

"The one and only, reduced to playing nursemaid to you. The fates laugh," was the dry response. Snape finished cleaning the blood from Harry's forehead and stood. 

"You are in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing, and there will be an--" His lip curled--"Impromptu feast at seven o'clock. You will be expected to attend, as your injuries aren't extensive." He turned and began to leave.

"Professor Snape?" Harry called.

Snape paused at the door. "What, Potter?"

"Where were you, these past months?"

Severus' shoulders slumped. "Trying to gather a defence force for Hogwarts. I was not in time, unfortunately."

He walked away then, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.

* * * 

As darkness fell over Hogwarts, the people who had survived the attack gathered in the Great Hall. Fires roared and the smell of food was almost overwhelming. 

"We have lost many," Dumbledore said as he greeted them, "But saved more. You should all be proud of yourselves and what you have achieved today, and grateful to those who gave their lives so that you could continue to live. Let the feast begin!" There was a ragged cheer as the food appeared, and the students began to eat. All bar one, at any rate. Harry simply could not bring himself to lift his fork. Ron was fine apart from a few scratches, and Hermione had managed to survive with just a broken leg. They were both eating and talking rather animatedly. Apparently Ron had told Hermione that he loved her in the middle of the battle, thinking that he wouldn't live long enough to worry about her rejection. It had certainly surprised him when she had thrown herself at him, planting a kiss on his mouth before killing a Death Eater that had been coming up behind him. Harry felt a hand touch his shoulder gently, and turned to find Professor McGonagall looking at him, sympathy evident in her eyes.

"Are you okay, Harry?" She asked, voice quiet and somehow hollow. Flitwick had been killed by a Death Eater that he had attacked to save her.

Harry gazed at her. "No, I don't think I am. I'd just like to go to sleep, if you don't mind."

She nodded. "Of course."

She insisted on walking with him up as far as the Fat Lady portrait, and surprised him by throwing her arms about him and giving his a brief, gentle hug.

"Thank you Harry," She murmured in his ear, before turning and walking back to the staircase that led up to the tower. Harry had stared after her for a moment before giving the Fat Lady the password -- _venia et si forte_ -- and moving up to his room. He stared about for a moment, before fetching out a small book and opening it to a blank page. He placed one hand on it, fingers splayed, and whispered a few words. An echo of screams and of whispered curses passed through the room before silence returned. Harry sighed and curled up on his bed, a choked sob finding its way out of him. He lay there for a long time, awake but not, until sleep finally claimed him as her own.

* * *

The days passed slowly with a kind of surrealism that Harry was grateful for. He couldn't help thinking that, if the feeling of reality found him again too soon, he would be lost. He had bought a replacement broom from Hogsmeade almost immediately--a _Cloudstorm_, the latest version of the _Firebolt_. He spent most of the day flying around the Quidditch pitch and remembering what had happened, and how bravely his friends had fought. Dean had been hit by a curse and was trapped in a coma. Seamus was unconsolable. The two had become a couple shortly after the end of the fifth year, and were inseperable. Lavender and Pavarti had been killed, and Neville had lost a hand in the fight-- it had been blown off by an explosion curse.

Four days after the battle Harry had returned from his flying to find Dumbledore arguing with another wizard.

"He's going to have to face us sooner or later, it may as well be while he's still under the school's protection!" The wizard yelled, waving his hands about irritably.

"I will not have him face you right now! People have _died_, Mr. Gregurlus, but you don't seem to realise that," Dumbledore replied. Harry had a feeling that he knew what Mr. Gregulus was.

"Professor Dumbledore?" Harry said quietly. "He's from the Daily Prophet, isn't he?"

Dumbledore nodded. "I'm afraid so, Harry. They've been trying to get an interview with you for the past three days."

Harry nodded and sighed. "He's right, you know. I'd rather have to face them while I'm still at school...at least that way when I graduate I won't have reporters following my footsteps like sniffer dogs."

Gregurlus flashed a triumphant smile at Dumbledore before brushing of his robes, and walking towards Harry.

"Now then, Harry, what I was thinking of doing is a front-page article on how you defeated You-Know-Who and about you in general. You'll be famous! Sounds good, eh? I'd have to stay with you for a day, though...get to know you, that sort of thing. We'll be regular old buddies, won't we?"

Harry stared at the man. "Don't patronise me, Mr. Gregurlus. I am not a child-- you pointed that fact out yourself. If I allow you to follow me around for a day, ask questions, that kind of thing...you and the rest of your lot will leave me alone. No stalking, no mobbing as soon as I get off the Hogwarts Express...nothing. Agreed?"  
The reporter blustered for a moment, before nodding. "Of course, Mr. Potter."

Harry turned to Dumbledore. "Is that alright with you, Sir?" He asked, voice slightly apologetic. He knew that he was being more than a little presumptuous.

"I think that will be fine, Harry," Dumbledore said, smiling at him.

"Good. I want that agreement in writing, Mr. Gregurlus."  
The reporter's face fell for a moment, and his voice was reluctant. "Agreed."

Two incidents occurred the next day. Harry hadn't changed his daily plan to impress the reporter, and spent most of it hovering over the Quidditch field. This greatly annoyed Gregurlus, and after a few hours he had exploded, demanding to know why they were wasting their time hovering around on broomsticks. 

"I don't know why you are wasting your time up here, Mr. Gregurlus, but I don't want to forget what happened here, or all the people that died. If the people who are left don't remember them, who will? Not the public, that's for sure. Not when the press opt to concentrate on one 'hero' instead of the group. I will remember, however, Mr. Gregurlus. Every face, every cry, every scream. I _will _remember."

Harry had flown higher then, moving to circle the the hoops of the field before stopping to hover about fifty feet above the irate reporter.

The second incident was at dinner. Mr. Gregurlus moved to sit beside Harry at the table, but Seamus stopped him.

"No-one else is sittng there, kid," Gregurlus had said. Harry turned to him and told him to find somewhere else to sit.  
"That's Dean's seat. No-one sits there apart from Dean," Seamus said.

"And who is Dean?" Gregurlus had asked, looking about. "I don't see him anywhere."  
"Dean is Seamus' boyfriend. He's in a coma," Harry said. "You don't sit there."

* * *

The article came out titled "BOY WHO LIVED PARENT'S HORROR", and went on to detail exactly how mentally unstable Harry was, and how he was 'withdrawing from society'. The students didn't believe it of course, apart from the few Slytherins who still despised the boy. The teachers, however, were another matter.

* * *

"Remind me again... why I am doing this, Professor?" Harry asked as he sat down, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that clearly indicated annoyance.

"To make sure that you aren't a threat to the students, Harry. We know that you aren't, but the parents..." Dumbledore said, spreading his hands apologetically.

"Are paranoid cowards who think I'd attack their children after saving them. Right."

"Harry..."

"I know, I know. It's not fair on you to be like this, and it's not fair to judge all the parents by the few who don't trust me. Can you blame me, though?"

Dumbledore smiled. "Not really, Harry. It would be a lot easier for everyone if you would just cooperate without complaining, though. Even if you are just saying what we're all thinking."

Harry sighed. "I know." He held out his hand expectantly. "Let's get this over with, then."

Dumbledore handed him a glass full of a clear liquid. Veritaserum. Harry took a small sip, pulled a face at the taste and settled back into the chair he was seated in, eyes clouding slightly. Dumbledore cleared his throat.

"What is your name?"

"Harry James Potter, as you very well know," Harry's voice was bored. He had been under Veritaserum so many times that, although he didn't have an immunity to it, he didn't lose his personality like most people did when they took it.

"What is your age?"

"Seventeen."

"Did you defeat Voldemort?"

"No, the little pink bunnies living in my nose did it. Of course I did."

"Are you planning on harming or killing any of the students here, or anyone at all for that matter?"

" Yes, I am. I saved them all from one horror only to become one. Right."

"A simple one-word answer would be sufficient, Harry. Are you planning to harm or kill anyone?"

"No."

"Are you capable of it?"

"Almost everyone is capable of killing, physically. Mentally? I wouldn't be able to kill anyone, ever. Not a human, anyway. I don't count Voldemort as human. I don't even think of him as an animal anymore."  
"I think that's enough, Harry. You've proven yourself to me, at any rate."

"I'd already proved myself to you, Dumbledore. May I have the antidote, now?"

"Of course." Dumbledore handed him the antidote and watched as he took a small sip.

"Feeling better?"  
"Depends on what you classify as 'better'. How's Dean?" 

Dumbledore sighed. "His eyelids have been moving at times like he's in REM. It's almost like he just can't wake up. How is Seamus handling it?"

"Not very well. He'll be glad to know that there's been some kind of improvement, though. I'll talk to him."

"Good. How are Ron and Hermione getting along?"

"Well, let me put it this way -- if you want a reply to a question you ask them you need the whole Gryffindor house to pull them apart."

"I suppose it's safe to say that there'll be more Weasley's coming to Hogwarts, then."

"Just pray that they aren't too much like Fred and George."

"Hah, yes. I had better owl this recording--" Dumbledore waved an envelope about vaguely-- "To the Ministry, and you'd better get to bed. Goodnight, Harry."

"Goodnight, Professor."


End file.
